


Sound Advice

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Parties, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leandra throws a party, and everyone gets an invite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by cheesiestart on Tumblr: Bethany/Fenris where Bethany wears one of those orlesian dresses he was talking about (in a fabric that matches her eyes like Varric was talking about).

Hawke’s estate glittered. It wasn’t unlike the splendor of Danarius’s home in Minrathous, and for a moment, that memory pulled tight at Fenris’s throat and threatened to choke him. He prefered his mansions rundown and corpse-littered. The tension passed, though, when he noticed Hawke’s touch in the foyer—a bloody gauntlet kicked haphazardly beneath a bench, a small rug that her mabari had already chewed.

He moved toward the main room, where the warm swell of chatter was already in full swing. Varric stood just inside the door. His coat covered his chest hair, for once.

"Broody!" He lifted his glass. "You made it. Hawke will be so pleased."

Hawke looked nothing of the sort. Fenris spotted her standing across the room, eyes nearly crossed with boredom. Nobles he recognized from Hightown were clustered around her and her mother, fawning. She caught his eye behind Leandra’s back, smiled wearily in greeting, and rolled her eyes.

"I think Hawke would rather be murdering petty criminals," Fenris replies.

"Almost certainly. The men are all suitors." Varric chuckled. "Barking up the wrong tree, lads." His gaze shifted, refocusing well behind Hawke, and he let out a low whistle. "Would you look at that?"

At the top of the stairs, a woman shifted from foot to foot, as though debating whether to descend. Her gown was resplendent—Orlesian, judging by the wide skirt. The color was a subtle hazel, highlighted by gold embroidery when it caught the light.

As she took a few steps down, her face caught the light. Fenris hardly recognized her; his last memory of Bethany was in Grey Warden armor, watching the ladies of an Orlesian party twirl by with something like longing in her eyes. It hadn’t been so long ago, but the difference was stark.

Her hair was swept up off her neck, carefully pinned, drawing attention to her bare shoulders. Her staff was nowhere in sight. She was a living weapon, of course, her magic always at her fingertips, but there was something to be said for seeing her without it.

He had only ever trusted one mage at his back in a fight, and she looked nothing like a mage tonight.

Bethany reached the bottom of the stairs. A few of the nobles gathered around Hawke glanced up, eyeing her sister with interest.

Fenris moved without meaning to, plucking two glasses of wine from Bodahn’s serving tray before cutting through the crowd. Bethany watched him approach, a smile on her lips; it widened to a grin when he presented one of the glasses to her.

"Thank you, Fenris," she said courteously. "It’s good to see you again."

"It is good to see you, as well. I didn’t know that Grey Wardens took leave."

"Alistair is too lenient," she agreed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "First Orlais, now this. It’s bad for us all."

"Orlais didn’t seem like a pleasure trip."

She took a sip of her wine before answering. “Any time I get out of the Deep Roads is pleasure enough for me.”

A hint of sorrow had crept into her tone. He cursed himself for his blunder, casting around for the words to make it right. “I see you took my advice,” he commented at last.

She blushed and looked away. “I feel so silly,” she said, as though confessing something. “I can hardly move in this.”

"You look beautiful," he told her, utterly sincere.

She smiled again. “Well. Let’s just hope I don’t have to unexpectedly chase down darkspawn, hmm?”

He smiled back. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

From the corner of the room, Orana struck up the lute, and the rest of the band followed. Hawke had managed to squirm out of dancing with any of her suitors; she took the floor with Sebastian instead.

Fenris looked back to Bethany, catching a trace of that yearning in her eyes. “Would you like to dance?” he asked, perhaps too abruptly.

She laughed, caught off guard. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any good. I haven’t been taking lessons about high society for the last three years, you know.”

"It wasn’t a prominent feature of my education, either," he said, taking the glass from her hands and returning it to one of Hawke’s many desks.

"I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of Mother’s old friends," she insisted, painfully earnest.

"Then they won’t see us," he said, offering her his hand.

She only hesitated a second before taking it. He led her around the edge of the crowd and through the door to the library; he left it ajar behind them so that they could still hear the music. The fireplace burned low, casting a warm, dim light over the room.

He drew her closer, a hand on her waist, and her hand rose automatically to rest on his shoulder. She smelled precisely the way he remembered—sun-warmed leather, crisp soap, a hint of wildflowers. He breathed in, savoring it; he doubted he would get another chance.

"I think I remember this," she said. "Carver and I used to practice. Here, I step back, and you follow."

After a few fumbling tries, they settled into a simple pattern. It wasn’t particularly ambitious, but there was no one to mock them. The band struck up a new, slightly slower song. Bethany stepped on his foot. “Sorry!” she whispered, giggling.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked, out of curiosity rather than irritation. She had not been in so good a mood when they’d last crossed paths.

"I’m happy," she replied, smiling up at him. "I’ve missed everyone." Her eyes softened. "I’ve missed  _you_. I was glad to see you in Orlais.” Her smile faltered. “I wish I could get away more often. I like my unit, you know, but it’s lonely sometimes.”

He squeezed her hand. “Perhaps I could write to you, if you could forgive the errors. Varric is teaching me, but I fear he has more interest in tricking me into saying lewd words than— _mmph_.”

Bethany had risen up onto her toes and kissed him. Their dance staggered to a halt. He wrapped his arm more firmly around her waist, preventing her from falling, and then her lips were gone from his as quickly as they had arrived.

"I’m sorry," she said, her eyes wide, "I don’t know what came over me, I just—"

But now he silenced her, pulling her fully against him, fingers reaching up to twine in her hair. She looped her arms around his neck, clinging to him, her mouth urgent, her touch frantic.

"I leave tomorrow," she whispered when they pulled apart for air.

He touched her lips, shushing her. “We still have tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fenris: You should wear one of those Orlesian dresses, Bethany.  
> (During Act 1)  
> Bethany: Why? Because I'm a girl? Because I should wear big, flowing skirts?  
> Fenris: Because you'd look preety in one.  
> Bethany: I...oh, I see. They are pretty, aren't they?  
> (If Bethany is a Warden)  
> Bethany: If only. Imagine the snags I'd get chasing darkspawn.  
> Fenris: Why does fashion not consider the needs of the woman on the go?  
> Bethany: All right, don't work it too hard.
> 
> *
> 
> Varric: So...Milady Sunshine, what's your first act of noblewoman going to be?  
> Bethany: A noblewoman with no fortune and no title? Looking for work, probably.  
> Varric: Practicality is for peasants, my lady. You need to do something frivolous to celebrate your birthright.  
> Bethany: Such as...?  
> Varric: Come up to the Hightown Market and complain bitterly that there's no Orlesian silk that matches your eyes.  
> Bethany: But what if something does match my eyes? What will I do, then?  
> Varric: Insist that they're blatantly copying you, and demand royalties. A good noble always has a complaint ready, Sunshine.


End file.
